She must give way.-Then, were the line
Of Rokeby once combined with mine,
I gain the weather-gage of fate!
If Mortham come, he comes too late,
While I, allied thus and prepared,
Bid him defiance to his beard.-
-If she prove stubborn, shall I dare
To drop the axe ?-soft! pause we there.
Mortham still lives-yon youth may tell
His tale-and Fairfax loves him well;-
Else, wherefore should I now delay
To sweep this Redmond from my way ?—
But she to piety perforce
Must yield.-Without there! Sound to horse."—
'Twas bustle in the court below.
Mount, and march forward!"-forth they go; Steeds neigh and trample all around,
Steel rings, spears glimmer, trumpets sound.-
Just then was sung his parting hymn;
And Denzil turned his eyeballs dim,
And scarcely conscious what he sees,
Follows the horsemen down the Tees,
And scarcely conscious what he hears,
The trumpets tingle in his ears.
O'er the long bridge they're sweeping now,
The van is hid by greenwood bough;
But ere the rearward had passed o'er,
Guy Denzil heard and saw no more!
One stroke, upon the castle bell,
To Oswald rung his dying knell.
O for that pencil, erst profuse
Of chivalry's emblazoned hues,
That traced of old, in Woodstocke bower,
The pageant of the Leaf and Flower,
And bodied forth the tourney high,
Held for the hand of Emily!
Then might I paint the tumult broad,
That to the crowded abbey flowed,
And poured, as with an ocean's sound,
Into the church's ample bound!
Then might I show each varying mien,
Exulting, woeful, or serene;
Indifference with his idiot stare,
And Sympathy with anxious air;
Paint the dejected Cavalier,
Doubtful, disarmed, and sad of cheer;
And his proud foe, whose formal eye
Claimed conquest now and mastery;
And the brute crowd, whose envious zeal
Huzzas each turn of Fortune's wheel,
And loudest shouts when lowest lie
Exalted worth and station high.
Yet what may such a wish avail?
"Tis mine to tell an onward tale,
Hurrying, as best I can, along,
The hearers and the hasty song;-
Like traveller when approaching home,
Who sees the shades of evening come,
And must not now his course delay,
Or choose the fair, but winding way;
Nay, scarcely may his pace suspend,
Where o'er his head the wildings bend,
To bless the breeze that cools his brow,
Or snatch a blossom from the bough.
The reverend pile lay wild and waste,
Profaned, dishonoured, and defaced.
Through storied lattices no more
In softened light the sunbeams pour,
Gilding the Gothic sculpture rich
Of shrine, and monument, and niche.
The Civil fury of the time
Made sport of sacrilegious crime;
For dark Fanaticism rent
Altar, and screen, and ornament,
And peasant hands the tombs o'erthrew
Of Bowes, of Rokeby, and Fitz-Hugh.
And now was seen unwonted sight,
In holy walls a scaffold dight!
Where once the priest, of grace divine
Dealt to his flock the mystic sign,
There stood the block displayed, and there
The headsman grim his hatchet bare;
And for the word of Hope and Faith,
Resounded loud a doom of death.
Thrice the fierce trumpet's breath was heard,
And echoed thrice the herald's word,
Dooming, for breach of martial laws,
And treason to the Commons' cause,
The Knight of Rokeby and O'Neale
To stoop their heads to block and steel.
The trumpets flourished high and shrill,
Then was a silence dead and still;
And silent prayers to heaven were cast,
And stifled sobs were bursting fast,
Till from the crowd began to rise
Murmurs of sorrow or surprise,
And from the distant aisles there came
Deep-muttered threats, with Wycliffe's name.
But Oswald, guarded by his band,
Powerful in evil, waved his hand,
And bade Sedition's voice be dead,
On peril of the murmurer's head.
Then first his glance sought Rokeby's Knight;
Who gazed on the tremendous sight,
As calm as if he came a guest
To kindred Baron's feudal feast,
As calm as if that trumpet-call
Were summons to the bannered hall;
Firm in his loyalty he stood,
And prompt to seal it with his blood.
With downcast look drew Oswald nigh,-
He durst not cope with Rokeby's eye!-
And said, with low and faltering breath,
"Thou know'st the terms of lite and death."-
The Knight then turned, and sternly smiled;
"The maiden is mine only child,
Yet shall my blessing leave her head,
If with a traitor's son she wed."
Then Redmond spoke; "The life of one
Might thy malignity atone,
On me be flung a double guilt!
Spare Rokeby's blood, let mine be spilt!"
Wycliffe had listened to his suit,
But dread prevailed, and he was mute.
And now he pours his choice of fear
In secret on Matilda's ear;
An union formed with me and mine,
Ensures the faith of Rokeby's line.
Consent, and all this dread array,
Like morning dream shall pass away;
Refuse, and, by my duty pressed,
I give the word-thou know'st the rest."
Matilda, still and motionless,
With terror heard the dread address,
Pale as the sheeted maid who dies
To hopeless love a sacrifice;
Then wrung her hands in agony,
And round her cast bewildered eye,
Now on the scaffold glanced, and now
On Wycliffe's unrelenting brow.
She veiled her face, and, with a voice
Scarce audible,-" I make my choice!
Spare but their lives!-for aught beside,
Let Wilfrid's doom my fate decide.
He once was generous!"-As she spoke,
Dark Wycliffe's joy in triumph broke:-
"Wilfrid, where loitered ye so late ?-
Why upon Basil rest thy weight?
Art spell-bound by enchanter's wand ?-
Kneel, kneel, and take her yielded hand;
Thank her with raptures, simple boy!
Should tears and trembling speak thy joy ?"-
"O hush my sire! to prayer and tear
Of mine thou hast refused thine ear;
But now the awful hour draws on,
When truth must speak in loftier tone."-
He took Matilda's hand:-" Dear maid,
Couldst thou so injure me," he said,
"Of thy poor friend so basely deem,
As blend him with this barbarous scheme?
Alas! my efforts, made in vain,
Might well have saved this added pain.
But now,
bear witness earth and heaven,
That ne'er was hope to mortal given,
So twisted with the strings of life,
As this-to call Matilda wife!
I bid it now for ever part,
And with the effort bursts my heart."
His feeble frame was worn so low,
With wounds, with watching, and with woe,
That nature could no more sustain
The agony of mental pain.
He kneeled-his lip her hand had pressed,Just then he felt the stern arrest;
Lower and lower sunk his head,
They raised him,-but the life was fled!
Then first alarmed, his sire and train
Tried every aid, but tried in vain.
The soul, too soft its ills to bear,
Had left our mortal hemisphere,
Had sought in better world the meed,
To blameless life by Heaven decreed.
The wretched sire beheld, aghast,
With Wilfrid all his projects passed,
All turned and centred on his son,
On Wilfrid all-and he was gone.
"And am I childless now," he said,
Childless, through that relentless maid!
A lifetime's arts, in vain essayed,
Are bursting on their artist's head!-
Here lies my Wilfrid dead-and there
Comes hated Mortham for his heir,
Eager to knit in happy band
With Rokeby's heiress Redmond's hand.
And shall their triumph soar o'er all
The schemes deep-laid to work their fall?
No!-deeds, which prudence might not dare,
Appal not vengeance and despair.
The murderess weeps upon his bier-
I'll change to real that feigned tear!
They all shall share destruction's shock ;-
Ho! lead the captives to the block !"-
But ill his provost could divine
His feelings, and forbore the sign.
"Slave! to the block !-or I, or they,
Shall face the judgment-seat this day!"—
The outmost crowd have heard a sound,
Like horse's hoof on hardened ground;
Nearer it came, and yet more near,-
The very deaths-men paused to hear.
'Tis in the churchyard now-the tread
Hath waked the dwelling of the dead!
Fresh sod, and old sepulchral stone,
Return the tramp in varied tone,
All eyes upon the gateway hung,
When through the Gothic arch there sprung
A Horseman armed, at headlong speed,
Sable his cloak, his plume, his steed.
Fire from the flinty floor was spurned,
The vaults unwonted clang returned!-
One instant's glance around he threw
From saddlebow his pistol drew.
Grimly determined was his look!
His charger with the spurs he strook-
All scattered backward as he came,
For all knew Bertram Risingham!
Three bounds that noble courser gave;
The first has reached the central nave,
The second cleared the chancel wide,
The third, he was at Wycliffe's side.
Full levelled at the Baron's head,
Rung the report--the bullet sped-
And to his long account, and last,
Without a groan dark Oswald passed!
All was so quick, that it might seem
A flash of lightning, or a dream.
While yet the smoke the deed conceals,
Bertram his ready charger wheels;
This, and what follows, is taken from a real achievement of Major Robert Philipson, called, from his desperate and adventurous courage, Robin the Devil.
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